Brainwaves
by Fantasia Komix
Summary: Rowan Dryadalem, a sarcastic twelve-year-old senior, has to cope with headaches & H.S. idiots; just as he thinks life's finally sorting itself out, some random teenager attacks him during his walk home from school, kickstarting yet another mess that the Collective has to clean up. Updates Reads Feedback Downtime. Rowan Dryadalem original name. Might become xover (reqs?) My 2nd f.f.
1. Chapter 1

Used to be called Rowan Dryadalem.

* * *

Minds. Boring into my brain. Burrowing into my consciousness. Why? Why do I hear minds?

Are they minds? Or are they just voices?

But, if they are voices, then how do I know so much? About other people, I mean. Also about all of the excess knowledge I am filled to the brim with, but I'm not really concerned about that right now…

Sometimes, I wonder if it is all a dream.

I wonder about these every day, contemplate them every hour.

Sometimes I would catch myself daydreaming during class, always interrupted by voices hacking into my head.

Personally, I think it is a sign of exhaustion that I daydream to begin with. Or perhaps I am just a weird (pre)teenager.

At first, I tried using ear plugs to simply block the noises, but they continue to resonate in my skull, unhindered by my efforts. Now, I use earbuds to listen to music, audio books, anything to drown them out.

But it doesn't work like that. It just muffles the voices, like how I imagine snow quieting footsteps, or a gag preventing a person from speaking clearly.

Or someone far away shouting to me, the message so important that my ears strain to hear every syllable, hoping to piece it all together into a somewhat coherent idea.

Usually, it isn't THAT important. Not important enough to warrant driving me insane with headaches that I can't sanely explain.

Imagine telling your teacher, _Hey, I have a headache from listening to all of these voices. But they aren't in my head, they're in yours. So, may I go to the nurse's office to get two aspirin? Thanks. Yeah, you really need to get your head checked._

 _Oh, could you put that phone down?_

I would get thrown into the funny house for sure. Locked away with madness boring into my skull, I would definitely go looney. So I don't say anything.

Anyway, why am I telling you about voices, about MINDS shredding at the little patience I have left? Well, I've got an agenda.

That agenda is to tell my story so that all of the pressure can escape somehow and not trigger an explosion that ends with a shattered brain.

Yeah, great times.

Guess what age I am. I'll give you a hint (well, it's not much of one to be honest).

Okay, here it is: I'm a senior in high school.

Nope, I'm not seventeen years old, not eighteen years old, DEFINITELY not nineteen years old. (Geez, I'm not an auldfart)

I am twelve years old. I am a Prodigy, according to some newspaper that I skim once in a while.

No, you goose! I am not some bug-eyed character from an elementary math game. I am a person with unusually advanced talents and qualities.

The vast spread of my capabilities includes, among other things, precocious intelligence, common sense (which some lack even now), sarcasm (which some have yet to become fluent in), musical tact {wind instruments, percussion, alto-voice choir, and the double bass}, and a knack to avoid most brands of trouble. Darn it, forgot the telepathy.

I've been through some crazy stuff in my life, from life-threatening allergies to creepy people trying to take me in their white van to being hit by virtually every piece of sports equipment in existence- including the actual players-, and I'm still trying to understand how I am still alive today (If you know, please tell me; I've drawn up a blank so far).

Let me guess, you think that I'm about to go on some quest to save humanity. That I'm going to become some superhero. That I am going to discover that I am not even human.

Or maybe you think that I'm just crazy.

Well, you're really close, on all of those. (except for one, but I'll let you stew on that for a while)

My name is Rowan Dryadalem. Wow, might as well say it.

Yes, my surname means "elf" or, my personal favorite, "tree lady". I personally think it was some joke. Whether it was plotted by fate, or even by some diabolical, twisted-minded ancestor, my family is not a bunch of elves, and never will be if I can help it.

I've already heard it all, so might as well get it out now.

No, my great-times-a-thousand grandfather didn't help Frodo destroy the "ring that will rule them all".

NO, my grandmother times-whatever-greats did NOT make TOYS. OR wear pointy shoes with bells. OR, may the lord of mischief have it not so, have absurd pointed ears.

But someone thought _oh, hey, this is a great idea. I'm going to just renounce my name in favor of this AMAZING title and name myself after a tree lady. It is a respectable name, and will not be made fun of._

Wow, thanks.

If I had any say in the matter, no-one at school would have known that it roughly translated to "elf," and it stayed that way for eight years straight. Well, until my Latin teacher decided to start stating random 'cool' facts during our Mythology semester. I already knew about it- my parents told me-, but I thought that no-one in high school would connect it to the kids in class.

I love my luck.

"Hello, class," Ms. Park said to the class that day. "Today, we will learn about the Dryadalem."

Everyone stared at me, for I already had a reputation for having "a big brain."

"Dryadalem is Latin for Dryad, a mythical humanoid creature that lives in trees, oh, yeah, it also translates to elf. Anyway, back to the topic at hand." She even LAUGHED at herself, but the idiots thought she was laughing at me, which didn't help matters.

As she continued with the lecture, moving on to Minotaur and Cyclopes, a group of jocks started snickering. Soon, it was all over the school.

I suppose I should be grateful that it didn't spread farther, but that doesn't stop me from shuddering when I recall the idiocy that jumped around then.

 _He's an elf._ Well, that was just stupid, plain and simple. I don't even have pointed ears, much less live in trees.

 _He cheated on the midterm with his magical powers._ I have a photographic memory. Sue me, I **dare** you.

People made the jokes about elves and lightbulbs, which is just childish.

But the worst one I _heard_ , and hear,- it isn't even said aloud- is true. _He's a **FREAK**_.

* * *

Photographic memory, telepathy, what could go wrong? SO. MUCH. WORSE. Than what you're thinking.

I remember everything told to me, everything I've seen. Everything that ever happened in my presence. E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G.

Got it?

Even my own birth. It was disgusting, so I won't go into it.

The only moment in my life that I don't remember was when I was five years old. Probably was because of the concussion.

Apparently, I had knocked my head on the concrete while running around outside.

I do remember reading a book, though -Journey to the Center of the Earth by Jules Verne- because other kids didn't want to play with me. They had already started thinking that I was a freak.

I didn't know that they were thinking that, though. I didn't have telepathy back then. But now, when I look back on it, I could see the signs.

Anyway, so I was reading when a girl named Janet Callaway stole my book and ran off with it, a regular occurrence. I ran after her, engaging in the fun game called 'Keep Away', but tripped in a hole in the grass right as I got to the sidewalk. I fell down on the concrete, then the memory goes dark for a while.

I don't remember any pain from right then, but picture this.

You wake up after having a crappy day at school to find yourself hooked to a bunch of machines. Got it?

Now, that was not even the worst part. Imagine that voices were blaring in your head. Little five-year-old me thought that I was going crazy.

There was a set of syringes sitting beside me, full of some who-knows-what. Some random stranger whose face is covered with a weird mask thing grabs two of the syringes and stabs them into my arm.

Vomit rises in little me's throat, but is blocked by a tube that forces it back down. Yum, tasty vomit. Just kidding, it tasted like acid and merde.

Some weird smelling gas came out of the tube, and fog clouded my eyes, then my brain, then it all went in a flash.

Ever since that day, I heard voices, but I found out quickly that they were minds. I don't know why, but I didn't tell anybody right then. That was probably a wise decision.

The only reason why I am writing this is so that I can share it. There is so much in my brain that I have a hard time sorting, but all of my memories are like fine-focus photographs, high definition video, or live music. It is all so overwhelming.

You're probably reading this as though it were fiction. I don't blame you…too much. It is a hard story to swallow, but hey, put it down and somebody else might actually believe it.

Now, here's where my adventure begins. Yep, I'm calling it an adventure, for it was. Don't look at this autobiography like that; this is a work of definite fact.

* * *

Right after I finished my midterm exam for Forensics AP, I started daydreaming. Again.

There was a lot of time, for it took me only thirty minutes of the two hours we had, including checking over it. I didn't need to, though, for I knew that I got all of them correct.

I got out my phone, plugged in my ear buds, and started listening to "A Cat Named Virtue" a thousand times.

Yeah, I listen to music that hardly anyone my age knows. But that's okay. I don't need to listen to what other people listen _to_ ; I merely hear their minds.

We get out at 12:20 PM because it is a half day, so I board the bus, 'super excited' to be stuck in a 'yellow can' for forty-six minutes.

Sounds fun, right?

No, it is miserable. It is hot, crowded, and louder than my Math class.

It also doesn't help that a lot of the older students don't bother with basic hygiene, stinking up the already smothering hot space with their sweat and stuff.

However, this is the one place where I refuse to muffle the voices. There are so many different people on the bus, even some freshmen who were twelve because they skipped a couple grades somewhere.

I rarely get to listen to kids my age, so I listen.

But I've never encountered another quite like me. Not until I walk home from the 'canning station'.

Halfway to my house, some random teenager that I've never seen before starts running up to me.

It was a girl, with blond hair and rich brown eyes. The eyes had flecks of gold in them, as though someone decided to throw glitter in her face on Freshman Friday when she was in ninth grade. She's definitely older then I am, at least four years.

I don't have some 'blank brain' moment, as I like to call it. I have observed this on numerous occasions throughout my high school experience. Some pretty girl- this stranger is pretty, in a way- would walk into class, then all of the teenagers would start gazing at her as though they've never seen a person, much less a human girl, in their lives.

I don't really have enough emotional attachment between my feelings and my actions to make a fool of myself, but I do feel a warmth come across my face. Is this what people call…blushing? Nope, you ridiculous reader, I just spent an entire day in an unconditioned school with a long-sleeve band t-shirt.

That's super embarrassing.

I don't try to say anything, for I haven't said anything for over two hours.

Instead, I get out my umbrella in a casual motion, for something about this person doesn't sit right with me. I don't say anything, I just watch.

Something about my face gives her pause. Perhaps it's my eyes. Dark violet with ocean-green flecks.

I constantly get made fun of for my stupid eyes. The doctors did some tests and found that they're okay, for the most part (They found that my eye pigments that they carefully extracted are actually spread erratically, with all of them absorbing different light. Technically, I should have rainbow eyes, but I was lucky).

Yeah, don't quite know what I could've done if I became the Human Kaleidoscope. Not much, probably.

Even worse, I have to wear prescription glasses, so it's not like I can use sunglasses to cover them. Well…that is probably for the best. One of the kids at school gets made fun of all the time for his reflective sunglasses.

People often have to look twice to make sure they aren't crazy; I got used to it, but I still feel a mix of unnerving and amusement when I see their reactions

She puts her smile back on, then pulls up an article on her phone. Then, of course, she asks, "Is this you?" The picture was from four years ago, and is in black-and-white, but I definitely recognize that picture.

Those weirdos had decided to write YET another article about me, but I still feel a hint of pride at the fact that they couldn't find a recent picture of me.

Proceed with caution. I say, "Yeah, so?"

The stranger starts to say something, but a bus slowly passes by full of elementary students, the loudest minds in the world, in my opinion.

Cue migraine.

I bend over the grass, bile rising in my throat as the pain sets in.

When it passes, I look up. The weird person looks distressed, even sick. _Good. If she wants to stalk people, she better be prepared for vomit._

That was what I thought, until she says, wincing, "Did-Did you hear that?" Without asking, I know what she's talking about: voices.

Hold up. Wait a second. Why can't I hear _her_?

Yes, I heard her voice. She's talking to me, and I understand her. I'm not deaf.

What I mean is why can't I hear her mind?

I paint a confused look on my face. An easy mask, to be honest- I use it too often, to be honest. But I forget to let it reach my eyes, too busy thinking of what I should say.

All of my doubts are pushed out of my mind for the moment when she nervously asks, excitement brewing in her gaze, "Are you a Telepath?"

Crud.

I start to back up quickly, then turn around and run, away from the girl who had figured out the secret that I had managed to keep for seven years straight.

The creeper runs after me, going way faster than I am. I push harder, but she keeps coming.

Stupid short legs. I run across the street towards my parents' house, pushing my raven-black hair out of my eyes. Looks like I need yet another haircut.

I pause at the crosswalk to check that no-one is going to run over me. It would be a sad case of irony if I escape a kidnapper only to be run over by a bus.

"Stop!" I hear from behind me.

Against my better judgement, I turn my head around and see that the creepy teenager has stopped ten feet away. _That is not a safe distance_ , Panic muttered. _But at least it isn't within arm's reach._

"Stop!" the girl shouts again. _Well, I stopped. You don't need to repeat yourself, or are you a broken radio?_

"We've been looking for you for a long time." She pauses to catch her breath, then adds, "For fourteen years."

High Alert. Creepiness factor is off the charts.

 _Oh, crap!_ I think. _There's more of them!?_ But I have little time to contemplate the catastrophe that is occurring. All I think is that there is a band of full-time stalkers who have been looking for someone for fourteen years. I'm not even that old!

Suddenly, I drop my bag and dash across the street, clutching my instrument case.

 _Well, I can't exactly let her have my most prized possession, can I?_ You probably think that I've got priority issues.

Just as I start crossing the other half of the road, I hear a blaring honking.

I stupidly stop in the street, my leg muscles frozen in shock. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my neighbor's truck bearing down on me. The driver is panicked, but the brakes are not working.

I think that the story in the paper should have the headline, " **DUMB GENIUS SQUASHED BY NEIGHBOR"** , with the subtitle, " **HERE'S WHY YOU LOOK BOTH WAYS** " **.**

I realize, with little more than disappointment, that I'm going to die. I guess I can't actively change the world for the better if I'm nine feet under- or gone with the wind, whichever burial practice would be used.

Wow, people say that when you are in a life-threatening situation, your life flashes before your eyes. For me, that's not the case. I just hear the scream.

"No!"

 ** _CRASH!_**

* * *

New chapter coming soon!

Shannon Messenger, you are an awesome writer! I realize that I've just changed part of your story already in my story, for this occurs when Sophie Foster is about fifteen (starting from her human birthday, not inception like the elves say).

So, this is going off to a better start than what I was hoping {YAY}, but I do hope to make the story grow as I go along.

 **Please review this** , for I do want to improve my writing.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, I have GOT to recognize those amazing people who have kindly taken the time to compose a review of my story's progress.

RedHeadWonder, you were the first to give your thoughts on this story, so I shall recognize your bravery; it takes courage to be the first to put down your thoughts (at least, that is how it feels to me). It really warmed my heart when you reviewed my story, for I had enjoyed your stories after reading them.

Somebody Random, thank you for the encouragement. I had to decode a little bit, but I figured it out (just kidding, I understood it and liked it 😊). Thank you for the inspiration though, I actually started thinking of something by reading your review (will clarify later).

Cressida123, I have to thank you for the evaluation of Rowan; don't worry, I will evolve his character a bit more. And about the comment about my writing style…I actually like that description. I wasn't really trying to do that, but hey, it works. It is much more pleasant than being described as leaping from one time point to another. And also, thank you for the criticism concerning the similarities between Rowan D. and Sophie F; I will try to mend that in this next chapter.

 **WARNING: PLOT TWIST STRAIGHT AHEAD.**

I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE KEEPER OF THE LOST CITY BOOKS OR THEIR CHARACTERS; THE ONLY CHARACTER THAT I OWN {SO FAR} IS ROWAN DRYADALEM.

Chapter 2

Wow, this story sure was short, right? I fall down, get squashed to a pulp, and you never find out what happens next in the story that you were hoping to read. Nah, that is just my obituary.

Well, sucks to be you, right?

Huh, I wonder what they put on my tombstone. Wait, what did they plant on my grave? Perhaps…dandelions? Weeds? Those annoying abominations that people call Creeping Myrtles? (You will never understand unless you try to get rid of one.)

🎵The tree came ba-ck, the very next day. The tree came ba-ck, thought it was a goner, but the tree came ba-ck the very next da-eay-eay-ay🎵

Anyway, back to the tombstone. They probably wrote "Sucks to be you", "Another one bites the dust", or "So much for that kid".

Wait, my personal favorites that I ever seen are probably "who was this?", "I told you I was sick," and "Bye."

Well, so long folks, and that's the…

…PSYCHE! I suck as a person, but that was too tempting to resist. I'll give a shout-out to whoever can guess what the song was a parody of. Doesn't matter what time you figure it out, I'll recognize you in my latest chapter.

Okay, here's the real chapter.

* * *

 ** _Crash!_**

At first, I wonder why I don't feel any pain. Then, I realize that my vision is dark, and panic, but then I open my eyes. _Wow, how the supposedly intelligent fall._

I discover that the truck had missed me by a mere five centimeters, for Mr. Jameson had swerved and hit the light pole next to my house. However, I don't stop to contemplate either the stalker, my idiocy, or my luck, for the said light pole starts to fall on top of me.

 _Well,_ I think. _This is anticlimactic._ Then the most important issue comes to mind as I face death. _I suppose they don't have any Flat Stanley knockoff sneakers at the clothing store for the severely crushed at…wherever people go when they die._

While I am debating this conundrum, I notice that my muscles hurt, as though I had run five blocks…because I did.

I scrape my forearms when I wrap them around my instrument case, trying to protect it from my fall. It somewhat works, but my body twisted right on impact so that I land on my back. Ouch. My glasses fly off as the back of my head hits the asphalt.

 _Great. I apparently am not allowed to even see the cause of my demise._

I quickly put my instrument case to the side, hoping that it doesn't get crushed.

But I hear humming, as though someone had turned on one of those confounded Tone Generators. Feels like about 2800 hertz, for my eyesight goes grey.

After several seconds, I wonder why I'm not dead yet. I open my eyes, and I see that the stalker that I was trying to evade earlier was staring at something.

Well, like any other sensible human being, I look as well. _Hmm…I guess the saying "monkey see, monkey do" really is plausible. I probably should write that down._ Then I notice that something blurry is currently above me.

However, my eyesight is so bad that I could mistake a red apple for a watermelon without my glasses on.

Stupid eyesight.

Suddenly panicking, my arm fumbles around on the ground until I find my glasses. I put them on, almost stabbing myself in the eye in the process due to my trembling fingers. _I really hate these things._ Finally, I look up, still sprawled on the asphalt.

Wow. Whoever made the 'nutritional' substance at school today must have been crazier than usual, for the pole is hovering over my chest. THREE. CENTIMETERS from crushing my ribcage.

The side of my brain that evaluates my observations pipes in. _Huh. Apparently when I encounter life-threatening situations, my brain goes metric on me. Who knew?_

The part that has always been intent on keeping me focused {The one that I have been ignoring lately} slaps the former and gives its typical response: _FOCUS_. I decide to humor it, for once.

I look back at the teenager, trying to determine if I am finally going crazy or not. It is soon apparent that either I am not crazy, or we're both destined for the pre-booked padded rooms, with complementary strait jackets.

The stalker is currently focused on the said lighting structure, staring at it as though someone's life depends on it.

My sarcastic part pipes up. _Duh, yours is the only one in danger right now._

She mutters under her breath. Something along the lines of "Get out from under the 400-pound apparatus, dimwit."

Well, that sure sounds like sage advice. I shimmy out from under it, both confused as to what in the heck is going on and glad that I decided to continue gym class. I scramble up to my feet immediately, strapping my oboe case across my chest and clutching it like my life depends on it.

(Yes, I love my instrument. Fantix also does, too. OBOE, not clarinet.)

Suddenly, the pole comes crashing down, and the stalker who just saved my life collapses. I stand there, unsure as to what I'm supposed to do. I finally tip-toe over to see if the said individual is injured, and crouch to the left of the torso (I had noticed that the person was right handed when she tried to grab me).

During my visual scan, all I notice are slight exhaustion depressions right underneath her eyelids, what others call sleep circles.

Bio-Med muses about her condition. _When did this person get enough sleep? No wonder she collapsed._

But right as I get out my phone to call my parents, her eyes blink. She gets up quickly, which Bio-Med doesn't like. _Yes, I separate my thoughts into different categories, get a grip. I do not have multiple personalities, I'm organized. Major difference._

She seems steady, for someone who's suffering from a severe case of insomnia. Even though this person had freaked me out earlier, I can't help feeling concerned.

At least, that **was** what was going through my mind until she abruptly starts walking towards me. Fast. She tells me to stay put.

At first, I am confused, and start speed-walking towards the sidewalk. Then I turn around and start running, all the while thinking, _not making that mistake again._

The stalker who saved my life {I think} starts to run in pursuit, so I run across the street, cut through my neighbor's backyard, cross the man-made creek that is behind it, and take several turns down back alleys, side streets, and between houses.

You can probably tell that I've done this before, but enough on that.

As I jog around the tenth block, I reflect upon the other times that I had to do this. _People can be severe pains in the Gluteus Maximus_.

Even in my brain, I refuse to use what most people call 'curse words'; it is not that I don't know any profane terms, it is just that I consider it a sign of a limited vocabulary and a lack of self-control. The closest I ever get to foul language are 'crud', 'darn', 'freaking,' and 'heck'.

Okay, fine, sometimes I curse in Italian, but it's not THAT often. I picked it up from my dad, who lived in Sicily for a while when he was a kid.

 _Back to the now_ , Focus tells me. After a while, I remember when I last had to use this maneuver. _I haven't used this route since that time that Kyle tried to-_

I stop. About five-and-a-half meters away, the teenager stands in front of me. _What the- how did she get here so fast?!_

I watch as she calmly, _too calmly for comfort_ , reaches into a backpack, which I hadn't noticed before because Panic decided to run around earlier. She pulls out something that suspiciously looks like a knife.

She starts running towards me. "You need to come with me, Rowan A. Dryadalem," she says with a now prominent scowl on her face.

(BTW, my middle name is Aster. And yes, my initials spell, "RAD." No issues? Good. Continue reading my bio; I am working hard on it even while being chased by psyco people.)

 _Oh crud. This situation is definitely out of control._

I run back the way I came, stopping at one of my parents' associates' houses to see if I could get some backup. But no, Fortuna hath forsaken me, so I continue running, my umbrella STILL in hand despite my having almost being squashed by a freaking light pole. I run through the various weak points of the human body, just in case the psycho-stalker catches up to me.

After about five minutes, I reach my house. Since our front door lock is warped and unusable, I head towards the back door, my breath now catching in my chest.

However, right before I reach the backdoor, and safety, I feel a sharp pain in my skull. It feels even worse than the busload of screeching elementary students that passed by earlier.

My brain fogs up, but I push the pain aside and get out the key-chain so I could unlock the door and get inside. But the key is gone.

 _Oh no,_ my panic-filled brain supplies. I forgot it in my backpack, which is now about one-and-a-half miles away.

By the way, I normally walk about 1.75 miles to get to the bus stop because I walk my little brother to school.

But then I remember the spool of wire that I always keep in my pocket to pla-I mean, **experiment with**. I get it out and start unraveling the knots that I had made in it over the past couple weeks. Heart, and head, pounding, I insert it into the lock, and start to move it around.

My stomach {figuratively} falls back down into my lower torso when I hear the lock click. But just as I start turning the door knob, something hits me on the back of the head, barely missing the kill spot at the base of the skull.

I fall down, fazed by the blow. However, I do not go unconscious, for my skull has grown to protect my brain from the various basketballs, Frisbees, four-square balls, footballs, volley balls, the occasional bowling ball, and other random hard objects that my head has made the acquaintance of throughout my school years; in short, I really do have a thick skull, about ½ an inch thicker than most.

Eyes refocusing, I see a pair of immaculate white-and-black tennis shoes, either women's 7 or men's 5 ½. I look up and see those same gold-flecked brown eyes; however, the brown, which would otherwise be considered a warm color, feels cold as liquid nitrogen. Scratch that, it is WAY COLDER.

The teenager stares at me and drops the flower pot into the grass. I wince as I hear it crack, hoping that my parents won't need it later.

Then the creeper launches herself forward, and I feel something pressed against my face. Scared out of my mind, I open my mouth to get the attention of any neighbors that might be home, only for a sickly-sweet damp cloth to be shoved in, similar to a gag.

I realize too late what the substance is. The taste spreads, even after I spit it out of my mouth, spreading a fuzzy cloud over my mind. I struggle, but it's all futile.

Finally, my body collapses, hitting my head on the doorknob, then the ground, as I go down.

The last thing I see is the frayed aglet on her white tennis shoe.

When my eyes shut, my brain is left to contend with the now rapid wave of numbness. One by one, the different aspects of thought shut down, leaving the sarcastic one behind.

He feebly inquires, _now what...?_ But I don't hear the rest, and I don't answer.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello, humanoids! I am back, and ready to start on the third chapter of my friend's bio. Yeah, it was a shame that he couldn't make it, but he got drugged by some teenage female while walking home from exams. No big deal. You might think, hey, this is a pretty nice person who's had a rough time. Maybe I should cut him some slack. Let me think…nope.

First off, I am going to recognize those who are sharing their thoughts on the story.

WritingLover21: Thank you for choosing to read my story. I noticed that you have recently created a profile. I read your stories, and, while they feel clustered, they are still fun to read. I hope you keep writing, too.

{P.S. I am curious as to why you put "sorry" on your profile description. The fact that you already have two stories started is impressive, and having slipups in your writing is okay; it means you're human, and it'll get better along the way.}

Cressida123: Thank you for the detailed reviews! I really enjoy when you review my works, for you really read the work, think about it, and are not afraid to display your opinion. Yes, [sigh] I deserved the reprimand for the way I have displayed Sophie Foster so far ((Created by Shannon Messenger)). But I thought that it would add something more to the biogra- I mean, story.

By the way, I didn't realize that I was writing it like a bio [smack forehead, realizing that I referred to it ]as a biography more than five times]. But I do like the description. And as for the untrusting nature of Rowan, I felt as though Sophie was being too trusting and rash; for example, she really should have had a contingency plan in place in case her secret got out the moment she was put in the paper, let's be honest. And as for running into the street after meeting an over-curious stalker, that was foolish; the better plan would have been to go back to the group, or to try to lose him by going into crowds in the museum.

Wow, look at the time! More writing, less talking, am I right?

" _This is the talking between the aspects, while this is thought._ _ **This is the thought of an aspect.**_

This is action, and "this is speaking out loud."

* * *

While I was running from the stranger, the aspects of thinking have a meeting concerning the situation that I had gotten them into.

Panic, his forehead furrowing into valleys, works furiously, trying to get his assignment together on time. He has taken the memories of today and put together a very detailed presentation of what happened, for it is his turn to present the information to the board.

Now, while he always tried his best to remain neutral, for it would be humiliating to have another call from Psyche again, he cannot help but feel concerned.

 ** _Why do children have to be so weak? Now that the Dryadic folk have found him, they will do anything to ensure that Rowan doesn't escape. We really should have had a lockdown procedure in case this ever happened. I wonder how that-_**

He stops himself with the realization of what he just thought. **_What are the Dryadic folk?_**

Before he continues this thought, Panic is interrupted by a voice behind him.

 _"Pan, the brief should have been turned in already. You are already .25 milliseconds late."_ _(_ In the mind, .25 milliseconds is equal to 25 minutes.)

Panic turns to face the double-personality aspect Logic/Focus, alias Logos, who is in charge of rationality; the serious aspect recently received punctuality as one of his tasks in Rowan's absence, and he is taking it seriously, word for word.

Logos continued to remind Panic of the reason why the task at hand is so important. _"At this rate, you won't have time to turn it in before he gets in trouble, and we don't want that; we need ALL the information in order to proceed"_

Right as Panic starts to answer, a brilliant white tornado starts to travel towards the two. It hits Logos, throwing him unconscious, then rushes to Panic. Panic feels a white-hot pain, filling his vision until all he could see is a blank landscape, then he collapses.

* * *

Sarcasm was speaking to Rowan when a cloud starts surrounding them both, with Rowan in the thick of it; he sees Rowan start to go glassy-eyed, so he tries to keep him awake.

Right as Sarcasm says, _"What now, genius?"_ , trying to get him to say something, do something, anything, but Rowan's aspect flickers, then vanishes.

He feels a despair fill his form, then he abruptly shuts down, unable to help his friend and leader.

Guttural rage infiltrates his senses, and he welcomes it. For two milliseconds, the only sounds in the Mind are the echoes of the unbridled screams of anguish emitting from his twisted form as he tries to bring Rowan back. Then he collapses, the emotions too much for his body and soul to bear.

Rocking back and forth in the center of the storm, he whimpers, _"What now?"_ , tears streaming down his cheeks unchecked.

* * *

Memory tries to tell Rowan something, but his Backer doesn't work. It is almost like the 'internet' connection is malfunctioning; to be honest, there really isn't such a connection needed, though, but it is the closest thing to compare the concept to.

Just as he tries to send the message concerning the specific danger to the KC again, a blindingly white spinning wind sneaks up behind him and whips away the device out of his hands.

He stands there, transfixed by the mysteriously lovely whirlwind.

It slowly approaches him, growing bigger and bigger.

Right as it reaches the ceiling, a mere meter away from his body, Memory snaps out of the trance, fear penetrating every pore.

He tries to run, but the storm engulfs him, the previously beautiful sight now a terrifying tornado of glass shards.

He tries to hit the side, but his hand is the only thing harmed; the skin on his knuckles was scraped clean off.

As he lurches backwards in pain, blood rushes from the bare flesh, covering the ground around him. The blood moves into a circle around Memory of its own accord, reflecting the whiteness of the storm.

As he watches in horror, the liquid divides into little circles and moves upward, pulling even more fluid from his body, depriving him of his lifeblood.

Soon, he shivers as the last of half of his blood joins the circles. It condenses, forming bars white as frost and his parchment-dry skin, for it had also pulled the pigments from his body. The bars are too close together, providing no room to escape.

Even worse, they begin to shake, hitting each other at a rate so fast that Memory finds himself trapped in a sound chamber. The frequency of the sound goes higher and higher, the tempo going faster and faster until the cacophony became too great for the preservation of sanity, and consciousness.

Just as his eyes start rolling upwards, his hand touches something. He forces himself to focus long enough to see the Backer.

He files the message under Project Flaredon with a single press of a button, then his vision goes dark.

The body falls into a heap on the freezing ground, his ear dripping white fluid.

* * *

When I wake up, I panic. Then I realize that I am…in my own bed. I wonder what is going on, for all I remember is a thick white fog, and Panic.

Eh, probably was just some dream I had.

Coffee is now definitely a priority. Toast too.

Then I remember that I have a project to turn in, so I quickly get dressed, brush my teeth, _who needs breakfast, anyway,_ and go downstairs to clean and pack up my science project. So far, it feels like a normal school day, and I soon forget why I was nervous earlier.

I go to school per usual, finish my last round of exams, which were pretty tedious because I already know where my understanding of the material is at, and ride the can home.

As I stumble off the bus and start walking the rest of the way, I'm suddenly hit with a sense of trepidation as I look around. For some reason, I think of pain and sickly sweet.

 _What do those have to do with each other? This is ridiculous!_

Shaking the momentary confusion out of my head, I get home without incident, which is great; I'm not in the mood to deal with any crazy stuff.

I start unlocking the back door, only to find that something was stuck in the lock.

I carefully use my wire to pick it out, only to find that it is a tiny bird-shaped button made of what appears to be silver; however, its weight seems heavier than it should be.

I slip it into my pocket, noting that it is cold, as though it had been there since this morning; as I unlock the door, I muse over the circumstance of its appearance.

 _I remember locking the door, so it couldn't be from before then. And since I left so soon before school starts, it couldn't be a student since all of the schools in my district have the same schedule._

I walk in and proceed with my daily work. Since my mother is a teacher and my father is a mechanical engineer at a government facility, I don't expect them to come back until an hour later, so I get out my jewelry kit.

By the way, I use it to experiment with various metals and to shape wire, not to actually make jewelry. Except as a present for someone, but I usually say that I bought it at some obscure location if they ask.

I put the button on an old spoon and heat it with the blowtorch, expecting it to start softening, but nothing happens. Instead, as the spoon starts to change colors, the button stays the same.

 _Is this…platinum?!_

This is a shock, for while silver was valuable, platinum is even more so, and is much harder to find. It also is denser, which explains the weight.

Right then, a burst of electricity zaps my hand, startling the merde out of me. _Really, why did I even think that? I thought I was sensible enough not to curse._

I bend down to examine the bird-shaped button, which I had dropped on the floor. It was…GLOWING!

 _Time to get out of here_. I've had enough experience to know that when any substance starts to glow after a disturbance, it is time to skedaddle.

Right as I start heading towards the back door, a blinding light flashes throughout the room, momentarily blinding me.

While I am dazed, someone (or something) abruptly grabs me and throws me over their shoulder.

I try to kick the aggressor, but the person's grip only tightens, crushing my rib-cage.

I try to shout to get the neighbors' attention, but I instead taste a sickly-sweetness.

I have a feeling that this is a sedative, but instead of muddling my brain, it jolts my brain onto full alert; I remember why I was so apprehensive when walking from the bus stop: the cold, determined, uncaring look in the gold-flecked eyes as the teenager used this same disgusting sedative flashes across my mind.

I feel my gut twist as I struggle one last time, then the figure drops me. It is a surprisingly long way down from the floor, indicating that the person is above six feet tall.

I look up to see…something that is most definitely not human. It looks more like a humanoid gargoyle than an actual human. Its features were that of determination, as the girl's were, but also of confusion.

I run past the stone creature towards the door, but instead get a fist to the face, knocking me to the ground. _OW!_ Right in the nose. _Definitely broken._

Looking up from the floor and clutching my face, I see periwinkle eyes staring into my own. They were full of regret…and determination. _What is up with all of this determination? Are they part of a cult or something?_

As I try to get up, head whirling from the hit in the face, I hear a male teenager's voice. "What should we do with him, Foster?"

I get up to find a stone creature and a bunch of people closing in, creating a barrier between me and the door.

They create a hole in the barrier, letting in the stalker from yesterday.

She monotonously states, "Take him." Regret is clearly written on her brow, which throws me off. Of all of the things to see in the face of my kidnapper, I would never have thought that it would be regret.

A teen with the piercing ice-blue eyes pulls out a stick, _which doesn't really look much like a weapon_ , and points it at me. He looks at 'Foster' and asks, "Are you sure," concern clearly written on his brow.

 _What in the world is going on?!_

'Foster' nods, giving the go-ahead with whatever is going on.

Any signs of emotion vanish from the teenager's face, and he jabs the twig in my direction.

I panic as I feel a pain ripple through me, increasing with each millisecond, spreading until it rushes through every pore in my very being.

Although it hurt to even breathe, I still somehow manage to stay up.

I stumble forward, all thought replaced by the need to get out of here. I get zapped again, the pain increasing ten-fold.

I continue walking, _more like limping_ , BioMed states, forward. I pull the wire and key out of my pocket, desperate enough to fight the troupe if I have to, arms shaking from the rush of electricity coursing through my veins.

Ice-blue eyes widening, the teen shoots me again. The pain is white-hot now, so hot that it feels colder than liquid nitrogen.

I fumble forward, blindly lashing forward with the wire in hand, hitting nothing but air.

I feel one final jolt of lightning in my chest, and my muscles cease to work in mid-step.

The ice radiates from my torso until my entire body stiffens; the momentum from walking forward makes me fall backwards, hitting my head yet again on the floor.

By then, the pain of the fall feels like relief compared to the maelstrom of paralyzing agony rushing through my body, threatening to pull me down under the waves.

Surprisingly enough, right as my consciousness starts to drown, Sarcasm decides to pipe in. " _What now?"_

But now the cultists, as I've since dubbed them, can hear it. Either they are Telepaths, or I am speaking aloud...probably the latter; they look shocked, probably at the fact that I could still speak.

I smile despite all the pain, glad that I was able to surprise someone one last time; I am certain that I'm about to die, and refuse to go out in terror.

Another blast sends me to the bottom, where I could see the figures pull me away from behind a thin white veil. Then the veil becomes infinite.

* * *

-Stranger's POV-

I stand over the male adolescent, perplexed by what just occurred. The boy had, despite being outnumbered, still been prepared to fight. I could decide that this is an example of humans' barbaric nature, or I could admire his courage.

I choose to think about it later, and I carefully bend down to prod the child's arm, trying to see if he is truly paralyzed. _Hey, he might be faking it. He seems smart enough to do it, so why not?_

Yes, he is out, for the moment at least.

I start to pick up his body, which is now stiffer than Bronte's humor, when it suddenly spasms, falling out of my hands with a crash.

I stand straight up, getting out my weapons upon reflex, and watch the boy.

The boy's face is blank, the eyes glossy as they stare into the unfathomable distance. _Where did all the emotion go-_

Snap!

The boy's arms snap to the sides of the body, and the legs jerk straight down.

His lips start moving, mouthing some phrase over and over again, scarcely breathing.

Panic blares in my mind, and I shout to one of the teenage elves to hurry up and Light Leap.

I gently yet hurriedly pick up the adolescent's body and run through the beam, letting it whisk us away.

-Time Skip, one hour-

 _This kid is STILL mouthing something, and I'm not a lip reader, so that sucks._

I sit down on the bed, tired from the ordeal.

As I contemplate putting a gag over the kid's mouth so I can go get some sleep, he starts shouting in nonsensical sounds, eyes blank as can be. _WHAT IN BLAZES IS THAT!?_

"Oedipus Rex marte!"

Pause*

"Iniziativa di Firebird!"

"Mubadarat fayrbyrd!"

 _What's all this about fire?_

The kid continuously shouts nonsense with increasing speed and volume, his voice never growing hoarse.

-26 hours later-

"Firebirdi algatus!"

"Inisyatiba ng Firebird!"

"Firebird-initiativet!"

This is insane. He's been shouting his head off for more than a day and a night, and it's now so loud that it is shaking Everglade; I have to stay behind with the kid while the others evacuated to make sure that he doesn't get out somehow.

"Fairbord sanaachilga!"

"Menter Firebird!"

"Firebird Initiative!"

 _Wait, what language is that? Sounds familiar... HAVE I BEEN LISTENING TO THIS KID SCREAMING HIS HEAD OFF IN HUMAN LANGUAGES FOR THE PAST TWENTY-SOMETHING HOURS WHEN I COULD'VE GOTTEN ONE OF OUR PROFESSORS TO SIMPLY LISTEN TO HIS RANTING?!_

Right as I get up to leave, the boy says one last thing.

"Initsiativa Firebird!"

I freeze. _Initiative Firebird?_

As though the boy heard me, he relaxes.

I relax, thinking that this nightmare is finally over, when the child's body bolts upright, crashing onto the floor.

Not even reacting to the pain, the boy starts monotonously chanting a phrase over and over again.

"Prochetete posledovatelnostta na aktivirane. Prochetete posledovatelnostta na aktivirane. Prochetete posledovatelnostta na aktivirane. Prochetete posledovatelnostta na aktivirane."

 _What activation sequence?!_

"Ne segaI," I mutter to myself. "Po-dobre da se spravya s tova po-kusno." (Not now...I better deal with this later)

The boy relaxes, and his eyes show a hint of recognition before they close, sound asleep.

I sit down, confused as to what in the world just happened.

* * *

I decided to have the character speak in Bulgarian, because when I read their character in the books, I immediately thought of Germanic family languages. Shout outs to whomever guesses who s/he/it is.

BWAHAHA- {take another breath} -HAHAHAHA! I am such a jerk, even more so for having fun writing the scene. But it was **totally** worth it.

I had to edit it. A LOT.

Now Rowan Dryadalem would probably kill me for making him suffer through that, he will forgive me…in a few centuries.

Or he doesn't even need to find out about my involvement. Hmm...I'll think about it.

Can't wait to start on the next part!😊


	4. Chapter 4

I do not own Keeper of the Lost Cities, only Rowan, the aspects, and any OCs I decide to add.

* * *

Memory wakes up to find himself standing in a spotless white room with a glass door looking out to a network of glowing wires and tunnels; the network pulses, the files and memories flowing in a steady rush of gentle shadow.

He notes his clean, black set of form-fitting clothing with chalk-lined sneakers. The shoes' soles are carefully lined with impact softening material, perfect for stealth work.

 _ **An intruder found Project Flaredon, again. Neutralization protocols will start in three. Two. One.**_

He splits in five, then the main opens the door. They go through the door into a room, where four doors stand. Four each go into a separate door, leaving the remaining to guard the Entryway.

They walk through the corridors, splitting every time there was a split in the path, leaving one to guard the intersection, and one each for the separate paths; they even split every time there is a bend in the path, leaving one to guard the corner, for one never knows where the intruder may come.

Soon, there are eight thousand, six hundred, and seventy-eight Memories prowling silently through the maze, chalk-white foot prints trailing in their wake, searching for the blood-red footsteps of an intruder.

Occasionally, a Memory would see movement and pursue it, only to find that it is only one of the Lost aspects. He would push it back into the wall, back into the Lost Maze where it can't emerge for another twenty hours. Then he would go back to his search, transmitting that it was one of their own Lost.

Finally, after spending an hour searching with no results, the Copies vanish, the only one remaining being the guard in the dark room. Memory panics at first, but grows furious as the nanoseconds pass.

 _ **Where is it?! Where is the confounded delinquent? Where is the one who violated the key law of the Known Collective? Who dared to send an Invisible to steal information, if not more?**_

Memory shudders at what the "more" could be. If even a single Lost were to vanish, Project Flaredon would explode in a bang that would rival the Great Awakening, taking him with it and leaving no-one the wiser.

Suddenly, a conversation from long ago comes to his Memory, of a task given at the moment of his birth. _**What if it isn't a mere intruder? What if it is the Lost of another Prodigy? This could ruin everything.**_

Or, a small part of him whispers, _**it could save everything.**_

* * *

I wake up, half-expecting to find myself in bed. _After all, that was what happened last time._

But, no, Fortuna hates me, for while I do find myself in a bed, it's not MY bed; I am in a room with light-green walls, in a bed with cat-skin soft sheets. _Creepy. I hope it isn't real cat fur._

The sheets, upon closer inspection, are made of some sort of plant fiber, for they have a different smell, like a hibiscus decided to try honeysuckle perfume for a change.

They also have an intermingling pattern of varying shades of gold, red, brown, blue and green, the chaotic clashing somehow pleasing to the eye. I, however, don't focus on the soft sheets.

I notice that there is a window that takes up the entire wall to the left of the bed. I pull off the blankets and move to get up; but when my leg is firmly placed on the floor, I'm suddenly hit with a mind-numbing nausea, as though the room decided to try being a top for a change.

I collapse into a heap on the floor, which is covered with a carpet of the same material as the sheets, struggling not to vomit.

When the sensation passes, I notice the pressure on my forehead. _What in the world is this?_ My confusion only increases when I pull out my phone. _I'm surprised that they hadn't taken this yet. Maybe I can- nope, there's no service._

 _What the heck is THAT?!_ I am looking at my reflection.

In the screen, it looks like someone decided to wrap some scrap metal around my forehead and stuck a piece of dirty turquoise in the approximate center, trying to make it look like a modern sculpture. Trying to pry it off with my fingers, I only succeed in scratching myself. Blood trickles semi-unnoticed down my face.

After a moment of consideration, I take a picture of the back of my head to see if there's anything preventing the removal of the atrocity, such as it being tangled in my dark hair hair or being fastened with superglue, gum, or flypaper. _Hey, I've had some weird experiences, give me a break._

When I look at the picture, my eyebrows involuntarily shoot up in surprise, and I stifle any sounds that I might or might not have made _. IT HAS A FREAKING LOCK ON THE BACK! Seriously? What if the person needs to do something, like oh I don't know, take a SHOWER?!_

Yep, the first thing I think of is taking a shower.

Speaking of which, I notice that there is a distinct lack of funky smells despite the whole fighting-for-my-life thing. _I should have SOME smell, right? This is weird._ Focus finally butts in. _Focus, kid, you have a piece of sharp metal locked onto your head. You should get going on trying to get it off without cutting yourself and not on your lack of B.O., right?_

 _Right._ I pat down my pockets, expecting them to be gone. But my luck has finally turned; the wires are still there, despite the obvious potential they have for escape and defense. _Yes! Thank you, Fortuna, for letting them be unbelievably careless idiots, and I'm sorry for cursing your name._

I fumble around the back of my head until I feel the lock, the insert the wires. Since I can't see it, it is slow work; after five minutes, my labor bears fruit, and the 'modern art' falls off, leaving relatively deep puncture marks and scratches on my forehead in the process. _I really wonder how I'm going to explain this. Tell the truth? Nah._

Ignoring the pain, I rejoice in my small victory, then proceed to find a way out of this place where they kidnap people and fasten metal thorn crowns on their heads; I'm just assuming that I'm not the only one, for it would be very disturbing if they really were stalking only me for the past fourteen years.

I turn around and spot a door, previously overlooked because of how it blends in with the light green walls. There is beautifully done cursive written on the door, written in teal-green paint; however, although I find it lovely in passing ( _One has to recognize art when they see it_ ), I proceed straight to opening the door.

The door is locked, as I had expected, but it doesn't remain so for long. Opening the door, I see a many-doored hallway with white walls tinted with splotches of pinks, blues, greens, and browns.

At the far end I see the start of a staircase, and take the chance. I speedily walk, carefully rolling my feet while walking across the wooden floor. _I find it ridiculous that people tiptoe in an attempt to be stealthy; rolling your feet distributes your weight in a more controlled fashion, thus preventing creaking and other tells. Right. Stay focused._

I get to the staircase and look down. There are at least ten flights of stairs, extending down at least 150 feet. _Great. Acrophobia, Claustrophobia, stay away for the time being; I am too busy to negotiate with you right now. If you interfere, it would make it much easier for me to get caught. Or get lost._

I somehow get down the stairs without panicking, then pass through a door located at the bottom of the heart-wrenching climb. I swallow the bile in my mouth, wincing as the acid goes down my throat, leaving behind a familiar sweet-yet-bitter aftertaste in my mouth.

 _Looks like I still have traces of the sedative in my system. Doesn't seem to have any effect, though. Perhaps its effects were a one-off thing._

I look up from the floor, my stomach deciding that it doesn't need to betray me after all, and see people sitting with their backs toward me at a table.

I glance at a mirror facing the people and am taken aback.

The people are strikingly pleasing in appearance, with flawless complexions and perfect teeth, though I am confused as to why all of them have blue eyes, and also what in the world they're eating. _That does NOT look edible,_ BioMed remarks upon seeing the orange-colored goop on their plates.

Then I remember that I should probably get out of here. I shake my head, then hurriedly walk backwards toward a door that I saw earlier, barely missing an ornate jeweled lamp and a polished petrified-wood coffee table.

I turn around and open the door, bracing against the inevitable creak. Of course this place is in top condition, for the door is as silent as a bored classroom.

I step outside, and see a jeweled path leading to a grand gate. _Great. Looks like these people are crazy rich, so they most likely have an insane security system._

I walk down the path, feeling an increasing uneasiness stroke my spine, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Then it turns abruptly into panic. Freezing cold panic that leaves a normal person brainless. I run towards the gate, convinced that my life is in danger, then stop. _Hold up_ , a voice orders. _What are you doing? You don't see any danger, do you, so stop running. Take your time, and relax._

 _This is not right_ , Panic shouts. _You don't_ _ **ever**_ _take your time in a dangerous situation, and you certainly don't_ _ **relax**_ _! Someone's in your head. Fight it._

I flinch, feeling a growing presence in my head, trying to find something; it twitches, a voice again trying to say something, sending a wrong peace. I grit my teeth in pain, blood now running down my face and into my eyes, as a high frequency rings inside my right ear.

I again try to walk forward, but the sound continues to rise, steadily getting louder, stopping me in my tracks. My eyesight grows fuzzy, but I use the remedy I learned when the jocks first turned on the Tone Generator; I hum a nice, low A, steadily growing deeper half-step by half-step, focusing on it rather than the confounded noise.

The noise ceases, and I start to run, determined to get out without any more delays.

But the door behind me slams open, and I hear heavy footsteps running behind me. I try to go faster, but I know the inevitable end.

Or so I thought. Suddenly, I get faster, rivaling the time the drunk seventeen-year-old girls tried to get me into their van to do who-knew-what when I was in eleventh grade. Then I get faster, the world a blur.

Before I know it, I'm opening the gate and closing it behind me. As I shut it, I look up and see that the gargoyle creature is a mere three yards away, a look of anger and annoyance in its eyes.

At a whim, I get out the wires and lock the gate, hoping that would slow it down.

But no such luck. The thing rips open the gate, the metal crumbling in its grip like a piece of locker-abused notebook paper.

I start to run too late, and the creature grabs my left wrist and yanks, disabling my wire-filled hand.

My right hand forms a fist, and it propels at the creature's nose…but since the gargoyle humanoid is much taller than me it hits the throat.

It coughs, clearly not expecting the attack. I pull back for another hit, but the creature grabs my hand, crushing it in its grip, making my joints crackle.

I, however, although it hurts a lot, somehow know that it isn't broken. The fact that the creature can control its strength with precision scares me more than the actual strength it exhibits.

The creature, upon closer inspection, looks more confused than hurt, for its brow is wrinkled much like my teachers' when they're perplexed at my behavior.

It clears its throat, then speaks.

I don't focus on the words, for I'm too shocked by the voice. It is a high sopranino, almost computer-altered high, mind-boggling compared to the physical appearance.

My face must've shown my confusion, for the creature rolls its eyes and starts again. "What are you doing out of your room, Rowan?"

Fear shoots through my body, pulsing in my hands and forehead, making them sting more than lemon and jalapeno juice on cuts. I hadn't realized that these people actually plan to KEEP me here.

The creature now looks afraid as well, but also looks like its suspicions are confirmed. It calmly says in that ridiculous voice, "No, little elf, you won't get away this time." _What does he mean "this time"?_

Then I realize what else it said.

What in the world?!

I am obviously hallucinating from some drugs that the kidnappers, because I swear ( _Not literally_ ) that I just heard him call me "little elf".

 _No._ A little voice whispers. _You aren't._

* * *

Memory curses his bad luck. He had thought that if he hid away the Lost aspects, Rowan wouldn't be found out.

 _ **Menta and Emer must have escaped the Labyrinth, giving away his identity. Perhaps I should have let him know about it-**_ But a voice interrupts his self-admonishing

 _"No. You should not. This is part of his development, Memoria, and you know it. Progress is going faster than I originally planned, but it would have reached the next stage soon anyway."_

Memory doesn't bother looking around, for he knows that it is one of his OWN aspects, the one that actually knows the mission. _**But could we not have at least trained him subconsciously?**_

 _"Someone else is already doing that. Besides, your mission is more important. Don't fail, otherwise_ _ **Mushroom Cloud Confetti***_ _will decorate Rowan's next birthday."_

Memory thinks of the last Memory who failed, and pulls himself together.

 _ **Yes, Fulcrum.**_

* * *

Yes! Got that whole "told that he's an elf" out of the way. Though I am tempted to do something else…but that's for later.

Just to put it out there, I have recently become a beta reader, and am accepting requests.

Now, for the recognition of those who have posted new reviews.

Kotlcfan11: Thank you for the complement, and I'll try to post another chapter soon.

Cressida123: Thank you! I tried to separate the perspectives, but Doc Manager deleted my dividers. I also updated Sarcasm's scene. I also understand the initial confusion, but I just really wanted to put in the aspects that Rowan THOUGHT were just his being organized during the drugging. (The pain that I wrote in was the melder) I am just going to put it out there *brace for blood-thirsty mob* I thought she was an idiot, so I'm going to alter her a little bit. And also, about the desk…sanitizer is pretty flammable, according to some horror stories about certain schools. _Focus._ All I'm going to say about Project Flaredon is that it is very complicated, and as for why Rowan had been placed back in the Forbidden City…I wish Sophie would just tell me and get it over with. I really love it when you review. *bearhug*

I almost deleted having Dex punch Rowan because Dex is so awesome and compassionate…but he's the only one with a Super Punch device.

This is my longest chapter (not including author's note) to date, so yay! Please review, and I'll develop the story. I am certain that Rowan is currently planning his counter-attack as I type.

There will be a shout-out for whomever could identify what song (including album) the bolded* lyric came from. (Hint: Based on a well-known satirical science-fiction novel)

* * *

*barely avoids sucker-punch from Rowan*

"Sorry, man! Please don't kill me."

"Give it back!"

{hour later} *hiding in closet* *Updates story*

Rowan snatches the device and edits the author's note. **Be sure to review, or I'll have to buy Fantasia Komix a r. sandwich.**


	5. Chapter 4:5: A different perspective

Chapter 4.5

 _ **Yuck. This is disgusting. Well, I hope this is worth it. Don't want Rowan to get caught by those Dryadic folk.**_

Panic presses a button on the Backer, making Rowan go faster from the house and towards freedom. But right after he starts running, Rowan stops at the sound of a voice. It isn't outside, it is on the inside.

 _"Hold up._ _"_

Panic looks up, one hand on his device and the other holding the bag of bile at arm's distance, to see a teen conversing with Rowan's avatar.

 _ **That's weird. I thought only Sarcasm can do that.**_

At first, he is confused, and wonders if it is a new aspect that was created by some tweaking of data in BioTech's lab. Sure looks different. Perhaps it's the dark brown hair or the immaculate tunic, but he doesn't trust this new aspect.

Right then, Panic realizes what he is supposed to do too late.

He sends a message to Rowan to run so that he can get away from the house, but the signal is jammed. Panic mutters about _"The sheer incompetence of the machine. Wish we can talk to him directly."_

Then the teenager turns around, and Panic is immediately taken aback by the beautiful teal eyes

The eyes whose complexity the vastness of the ocean can't even hope to surpass, and the sky looks sickly in comparison.

But the incomparable depths hold sorrow and regret and anguish and love within, making him feel as though he is falling, drowning in the sheer chaos circulating in his heart as he instinctively desires to comfort the stranger.

Panic snaps out of his trance when he sees a warm body mass head quickly towards the door that Rowan's terrestrial body just went through, and he tries again to make Rowan run and get away from the Goblin, but it doesn't work.

 _"What are you doing? You don't see any danger, do you, so stop running. Take your time, and relax."_

 _ **Oh crud. Why this person? Why the boy with the fathomless eyes? I better save Rowan before this stranger steals his chance at freedom, like he had my curiosity, if not interest.**_

Panic smacks the Backer, hoping that the issue is a mechanical one and not "internet", then click the phone setting. He raises his voice, irrationally hoping that it would reach Rowan easier that way.

 _"_ _This is not right,"_ Panic practically shouts as he tries to snap Rowan out of the influence of the stranger.

 _"You don't_ _ **ever**_ _take your time in a dangerous situation, and you certainly don't_ _ **relax**_ _! Someone's in your head. Fight it."_

* * *

Unknown

 _ **This is one of the strangest minds I've ever been in, and that's saying a lot. I've been in broken minds, Sophie's brain, Fintan's disaster of a consciousness, even the mind of an ogre. Wasn't pleasant, don't recommend it. I wonder why I am thinking in complete sentences. Anyway, time to find the consciousness, the one in power.**_

I note the various people walking around here, each performing its own little task, like a little, well organized hive.

 _ **Is this guy crazy or something, because I've never seen multiple people physically working around in a mind before. I wonder how it happened, how it works. Oh yeah, I'm here to complete a retrieval.**_

I walk around, the people inside looking at me as though I am crazy. I don't really blame them, for I certainly look different, my apparition's clothing being one of my tunics from the Lost Cities; all of them are wearing current human attire, with some wearing jeans and t-shirts and others with job-specific clothing, like lab coats, black suits, or military attire.

I really need to stall this crazy person, so I run past all of these people, causing a tad bit of chaos as I plow through the masses.

 _ **Hmm…looks like these people don't like rude people as much as the other average person. Perhaps this person is worse off than I thought, if these personalities each have their preferences in behavior. He'll need some help.**_

I finally come across the avatar of, _**what was his name…oh yeah**_ , Rowan's consciousness. He looks pretty stressed, and that would make it difficult to get him back so that we can talk to him and figure this whole mess out.

I walk over, noticing a person with a plastic bag and a "cell-phone."

 _ **Whatever those are, I never figured out how those work or their uses. Personally, I prefer my Imparter to human technology (more efficient), but hey, everyone's got their preferences.**_

I ignore the person, figuring that it is just one of Rowan's personalities. Just in case, I shield myself and Rowan to prevent any interference. Behind me, I hear strained muttering, something "machine" something something "directly" something.

I walk over to the consciousness's apparition, determined to at least stall him until Sandor can get him back inside until we know what to do with him. So far, it looks like the kid's just crazy, no offence to Sophie; Sophie's pretty intuitive, but she can be wrong sometimes. That's an understatement, I think, and I chuckle.

I do wonder how he got out of the Ability-Inhibiter _ **.**_

 _ **Maybe I'll ask some other time, when I'm not risking detection.**_

Then Rowan starts to run, fear in his eyes.

I talk to Rowan, trying to get him to stop.

 _"Hold up,"_ I say to get his attention. He stopped, though he now looks confused.

I note that the personality from earlier is now muttering about something else. I look up and meet the eyes of the personality, which look both shocked and curious upon seeing my eyes, his own eyes a deep violet with grass stripes.

 ** _THAT is weird, never mind what I thought before, that is weird._**

Right then, panic and anger growing in the creature's eyes upon seeing Rowan's apparition, it promptly smacks the cellphone.

 _ **What a weird reaction. Oh wait, darn it.**_

I resume talking to Rowan, my eyes on the personality as it looks at the device intently. "What _are you doing? You don't see any danger, do you, so stop running. Take your time, and relax."_

The personality shakily raises the cellphone to his face, raising his voice as well.

 _ **He's warning Rowan. The personalities aren't as crazy as I thought, they are indeed for a task, to protect the kid. Should've studied this kid more before we took him back to the house.**_

 _"_ _This is not right."_ The personality's voice rings out, damaging my defenses around Rowan, forming cracks in the shell.

 ** _What in the world is it doing?_**

 _"You don't_ _ **ever"**_

Crack

 _"Take your **time** "_

Another crack trails across the shell.

 _"In a dangerous situation, and you **certainly** don't __**relax**_ _!"_

 _ **Yep, he definitely broke the barrier.**_

I wonder: _ **Is it the kid who's strong, or is it his little guardians?**_

 _Someone's in your head. Fight it."_

Rowan looks stressed, and I feel a growing resistance to my presence. I reach into his consciousness, trying to find the safe spot but not finding one.

He doesn't have a back door, only a strong, silent wall.

I try to break it, and Rowan's apparition grits his teeth, blood dripping down from puncture marks on his forehead to the clear lenses in front of his pained eyes.

 _ **How did those get-oh. We are idiots. How are we going to gain his trust now? We chased him, drugged him and put him back inside his own house without explanation. Then we proceeded to kidnap him, stick him in a strange room, put an Inhibiter on him that made him bleed, then I start rooting around in his head. How nice are we? No, don't feel guilty, just get the job done and it'll all be better.**_

He looks to be in some pain, his eyes squinting as though staring into a bright light. Then, to my surprise, he starts to hum, gradually getting deeper. _**What in blazes is he doing?!**_

In the corner of my eye, I see a person dart into a corridor to the left of the avatar; the sound expands, filling the entire mind with an ever-continuing resonance, the noices overlapping into a maelstrom.

Spots flash across my vision, and I barely manage to stay upright as the needle-like chaos jabs into my skull.

Suddenly, there is silence. Beautiful, wonderful silence.

After but a moment, I hear a small click behind me and turn to look.

 _Wow_. Rippling sea-green ripples are rushing from Rowan's now-tapping feet, aligning with every thud and every pause.

The noise shifts, and I see an orchestra shimmer into existence, preparing to play something or another. I see a bunch of wooden aparatuses with strings and sticks, some rusty-yet-shiny giant teapots and funnels, some tubes with holes, and some drums.

Weird. Humans are just weird.

As I turn to leave, certain that S can get to the boy in time, the orchestra 'shifts into high gear.' S's been teaching us a lot of human practices and customs. Still don't really get the purpose of saying "yeet," though.

The group starts playing "The Seal Lullaby," something to do with training dragons, and "Apollo 13." Didn't know humans believed in naming things after things of Grecian origin, but it sure sounded amazing.

It's so looooooooong, though. As I stand through the whatever-number-this-is fermata, my eyelids start to droop. The music finally ends, taking any last resolve I had for the moment.

I yawn, and say, _"Goodbye,"_ smiling sleepily.

A little soft cloud gently bundles me into a little wrap, not unlike how Matheur and Fahthér did when I was little, and carries me up and past the crazy's barriers. I look up and see golden stars in a brown Spin Galaxy.

I sign in content and let the exhaustion tuck me in into the dormant recesses of my mind.


	6. ChIn1 Rowan and I play around

One hour earlier…

*Me trying to hide behind one of the living-room chairs*

Rowan: "Hey, Fantix, have you seen my glasses?" *Looks at me closer and looks suspiciously at my behavior* "What did you do?

*Me mumbling incoherently, trying to figure a way to avoid the questioning of my brother*

"What was that?"

*Me looking guiltily around the room* "I-I-I accidentally broke your glasses." *Braces for impact*

*Rowan looking at me like I just said that I ate a stinky, month-old argyle sock with extra sweat* "Sorry, I must be hard of hearing, but I think I just heard you say that you broke my glasses."

*Me curling into a defensive ball* "Y-yeah, sorry Rowan, I stepped on them as I went down the stairs. Looks like one of the cats grabbed them, they like knocking them down the stairs."

*Rowan furrows his brow, clearly trying to keep himself from yelling at me. (Rowan and I aren't allowed to raise our voices; our parents hate it when we argue, for we usually get so loud that the cats hide in the game closet until it's over) * "Fantix, I propose that we settle this before it escalates. You know that I'm frustrated."

*Me perking up* "How about a bet? If you win, I have to buy you new glasses. If I win, you have to get me a sandwich of my choice."

*Rowan looking exasperated* "Well, why can't you just buy the glasses instead of making a deal? Fine, but you also have to tell me who you talk to at night; it's so annoying when I am trying to get some sleep and I hear your voice in the next room."

"Deal. How about the bet is on whether someone reviews my story?"

*Rowan smirking* "Yeah, I say that someone will review your story. Wait, what story?"

"I won't tell you until it's finished. Or until I feel like it."

"Well, I won't leave me alone until you tell me."

"Hmm…nope."

* * *

-One hour later-

*The two of us are playing Warhammer: Age of Sigmar*

*I move my Witch Elf hoard towards his Hero and take it out* "So, still think that I'm going to tell you about my story?"

*He moves his Plague-Carriers towards my Morathi, not noticing that my hoard is near his Sorcerer* "Yep."

*I take out the piece, crippling his army*

*He raises his hands in defeat* "Well, you win."

*I suddenly snack my iPad and his sorcerer and run off*

"Hey, come back!"

* * *

-And then you know the rest-

* * *

One day later…

*Me half-heartedly picking at my sandwich while sitting in a diner* -sigh-

*Rowan glares at me* "What"

*Me finally pushing the delicious-looking Ruben sandwich aside* "Oh, nothing. Just thought that I would lose the bet. I was looking forward to that."

*Rowan abruptly lunges forward and pushes the plate back towards me* "Well, I spent a good eight dollars and twenty-seven cents on that sandwich, so you better eat it, or else."

*Me grumping anyway* "Well, depends on what the 'or else' entails. If it involves you writing my story from now on, be my guest."

*Rowan stands up and starts walking* "Nope, no way, because apparently you know me better than I do. And besides, I do NOT need any more stress added to my plate; look at what it's doing to you."

*Me smirking* "And I thought you could do almost everything. Guess the stress is on the 'almost.'"

*Him giving me a blank stare* "Well…what does that mean, Fantix? Am I not up to your expectations, or is it that you don't know how to maintain social homeostasis?"

*I stand up and start walking towards him* "I am just saying that for…reasons that I will not divulge in the interests of my own self-preservation."

*Rowan rolls his eyes, clearly exasperated with my annoying behavior* "Well, I am just going to say that I would really like to read your story. You promised that you would show me, after all, you used my name, and I got you a sandwich." *He immediately opens his eyes wide, clearly hoping that this passes for a puppy dog look*

*It does, but I restrain myself* "Nope, not happening"

*He pulls out his phone*

*I immediately go onto Fan Fiction and block him from reading the story I'm writing* "Well, it's a surprise, I'm not done yet. And besides, you only got me a sandwich because you lost the bet. By the way, that look just makes you look surprised."

*Rowan slumps, looking disappointed* "Well, I hope you aren't going to try to do something crazy with my name like write some crazily spun work of fantasy fiction with a dash of violence and crazy. I do not want it to mar my name."

"You will just have to see" *scribbles in sketch book* "Now begone, you cretin. I have work to do."

*Rowan pays the bill and walks out, leaving me behind*

*I sit back down and look to the side* "Well, it's nice to see you too, Menta. Now, what should we talk about?" *I finish Panic's sketch during Chapter 4.5*

*Phone beeps, and I see that there's a review on the 4th chapter* "Oh, looks like Rowan won the bet after all"

*Leans sideways in a secretive manner* "Let's not tell him just yet."

*Types on phone*

* * *

Message:

"Thank you, Cressida123! Yeah, I wasn't very fond of Sophie, but you're right: people can have their own opinions. Also, about the dividers, I just now found out how to use the one-line border thing on the edit document setting; those are way more efficient than what I was trying to use. As for the aspects, some of them are genuine parts of Rowan's personality, and others…well, the story will eventually explain. As for what a Lost is…that is part of Project Flaredon. Fulcrum is someone or something in charge of moving Project Flaredon on schedule. *stupid science pun* As for whether Project Flaredon is related to or was created by the Neverseen…I don't know yet. My contacts have been rather closed-lipped lately. As for who was in Rowan's mind…read Chapter 4.5 (Fifth chapter). Sandor and the others underestimated Rowan's intelligence, which was pretty foolish. I love it when you review, there are so many questions that I could think about as I write, thinking about whether I should answer it this chapter or the next. Thank you, again. :)


	7. Chapter 5

Rowan blinks, unsure what to say to the voice inside his head. He momentarily wonders if it is another intruder, but he somehow is sure it's not.

He asks the voice about its identity. _Who are you, strange one? I don't remember thinking in your voice, nor are you the intruder from earlier. If you are another trespasser, please leave me alone._

 _I am Menta, a Lost aspect. I go into other people's mind's and bring their brain-frequencies to you. Don't ask me any questions, or I'll be caught and your brain will be damaged._

Before Rowan thinks further, the garg-Sandor clears its throat and speaks again. "Did you hear anything I just said, or are you hard of hearing." It releases one of Rowan's arms and shifts it to the other hand, then starts moving the free hand in what looks to be a form of sign-language.

Rowan recovers and says, eyebrows cocked at the ridiculousness of the situation despite the fact that both of his arms are restrained, "No, I'm not hard of hearing, sir, I just am having difficulties accepting the situation. But somehow I can't really deny your statement even though it goes against almost everything Logic says."

Sandor looks at me with more than a bit of confusion. "Who's Logic? I thought that was a property of the average sane mind, not a person."

Rowan shrugs and says, "Well, that is a story for later. Would you mind letting me go? I feel the circulation in my arms being cut off little by little, and it is not very pleasant."

"Not until I bring you back inside, then we have some questions for you."

Rowan sighs, for he was hoping that he could make a run for it when he was set free. But that plan won't work now, and he shouldn't've underestimated the intelligence of his captors.

Sandor abruptly turns and starts walking towards the house, Rowan frantically pedaling his feet as he tries to keep up, not wanting to trip and get dragged the rest of the way.

* * *

 _ **I hope Sandor got to him in time. It would suck having to grab Rowan again; that kid was able to resist the sedative, the melder, the Ability Inhibitor, and Fitz's intrusion, and I am not sure what else we can use.**_

 _ **I mean, sure the kid did conk out the first time he was subjected to the sedative, but it had no effect on him when we went to bring him in a week ago. He was able to resist the melder's effects twice before being felled the third time, and he was STILL able to talk before nap-time. To be honest, I think the kid is pretty cool, but he freaks me out too much to be ignored.**_

 _ **I wonder why I wasn't able to detect his emotions when I carried him, though. Perhaps it's because he was knocked out from all of the hits from the melder.**_

I contemplate this conundrum until Sandor finally returns with Rowan in tow. The kid looks like he just got dropped off Silveny at one hundred meters.

I don't blame him, for Gigantor is pretty intimidating, except for his squeak of a voice. His voice is ridiculous, like he had broken into a capsule of helium when he was little and damaged his vocal cords breathing in all of the contents; Dex would probably tell me that helium doesn't work that way, but I can still dream.

Anyway, when Sandor gets through the door, I run over to shut, bolt it, and cover the lock, for this kid looks pretty smart with a wire. He might've even been a prankster back home; but not as experienced as me, of course.

Sandor walks over to one of the plump chairs and drops Rowan on it. He stands guard, but Rowan looks less likely to bolt for it and more likely to have a mental breakdown. I don't really blame him, for a Goblin did just chase him down and grab him.

I sit down in the chair opposite him so that I could keep his attention as we talk to him. I open my mouth, about to say something, then think better of it. I better take it slow with this kid, he's been through a lot, so I don't want to just blurt out something I'll regret later.

I think for a moment, then I catch myself running my hand through my immaculate hair and grab my wrist, for that is a nervous habit that I desperately want to break. The kid looks at me funny, no doubt thinking that I'm crazy, his emerald-flecked purple eyes boring into my own; it feels as though his gaze is Probing, uncovering all of my deepest secrets, my deepest emotions, my very core.

I look away, away from that intense stare yet still feel its focus. This Rowan seems dangerous, but he is just a kid. Well, we've done scary things at his age.

Suddenly, he starts shrinking, and I stand up, a shriek maybe-or-maybe-not emerging from my throat. I watch, my eyes wide with fear, as the kid continues to shrink, his proportions changing into those of a (smaller) child, his eyes filled with unshed tears.

By the time he stops, I stand in front of a seven-year-old boy. I feel a wave of fierce guilt as I look at him. _What have we done?_

* * *

The gargoyle brings me back into the house and pushes open the door. He firmly picks me up and dumps me onto one of the chairs. I land with my feet on the back, my head a couple inches from the floor. _Wow, now what is the point of this, exactly?_

I pull myself up and turn until I'm upright on the chair, feeling sorrow at the failure of my attempt to escape and shock from being chased down by a rock pile with legs. From behind me, a figure rushes to lock the door and cover the lock with some sort of plug. _Great, that won't work. And I don't have a plan B._

I sit there, sorrow turning into frustration as I watch the figure sit in front of me. It is the teenage boy with ice-blue eyes, the one who shot me with that insufferable pain. I look down, angry at the sheer injustice of the situation, angry at the boy in front of me, angry at my own constant success in failure.

The boy in front of me starts to run his hand through his immaculate blond hair, obviously nervous; then, to my surprise, he seizes his wrist, stopping it for the moment. He brings it down to his leg, where it was tapping at a steady 150 bpm.

He notices that I'm watching him and looks away, anxiety in his eyes, but also something else. Perhaps…guilt? _But why would he look that way, his eyes ancient, like they had witnessed terrible things? He probably caused most of them, to be honest._ I feel tears shoot to my eyes, but I refuse to cry, to give the little ground I have, to lose myself in front of my enemy.

But I'm hit with a steady increasing rain of hopelessness, and I feel small. I feel like a mere child, like the boy I was in Kindergarten, surrounded by bullies that called me freak and thought me as a monster. What is the use anymore? I'll probably die anyway.

I feel my heart dimming, as though I'm indeed dying inside.

Suddenly, the world starts to grow, and the boy shoots straight up, staring at me with shock-filled eyes. I look down, and realize that **I'm** shrinking. But I don't care, the situation is not important anymore, so why bother.

The boy looks stunned, his eyes filled with guilt and regret. Then his eyes go into the back of his head, then he falls, hitting his head on the coffee table. Pain goes through my head as I watch him, my insufferable empathy working even though he is my enemy. _I hope he doesn't have a fainting history, for that could cause some damage,_ murmurs BioMed.

I stand, secretly hope\ing that he is okay. But instead of walking like I intended, I collapse, the nerve in my neck hitting the edge of the chair, agony spreading through and leaving a fog. _Crud. I take back what I thought earlier, I hate you, Fortuna._

As my vision grows white, I look at my little(r) hands and faintly think, _I haven't seen these in a while._ Then my conscious winks out, my eyes empty as they reflected the world around me without seeing.

* * *

I am in the middle of getting ready to explain things to Rowan when I hear a thud from downstairs. I figure that it is probably Iggy causing mischief, so I rush down the stairs, hoping to catch the pest before I talk to the boy.

I come down, expecting to find a knocked-over lamp or a shredded sock only to find the prone bodies of Keefe and Rowan on the floor. Keefe's body is collapsed by the stiff chair while Rowan's is by the plushy one.

I look over them and gasp at the sight of Keefe's head, the back of which is bleeding; he is face-down, so I turn him over and stifle a scream.

His eyes are open, but they are wildly spinning, sometimes facing the back of his head, sometimes facing me but never seeing. _He's broken._

I put him into a comfortable position so that I could heal him, then face the boy whose face is also to the floor. His head looks okay, but there is a nasty bruise on the side of his neck, probably from a fall. _Hmm…he looks different. Wonder why-_

My eyes widen at the sight of the face I see when I turn him over. It's that of a little kid, about the same age- _As my sister was when I left._

I sit down and cry, the memory of my fingers spinning the disk, of my family collapsing from the drug, of their false trust in me when I promised to tell them what was going on. _I never said a real goodbye._

I feel the cracks, but I fill them up, reminding myself that I did and am doing this FOR my families. All of them.

I pick up Rowan's body, gritting my teeth as I stagger towards the couch, avoiding looking at the child's face the entire time.

I walk back, kneel by the body, and delve into Keefe's mind, bracing for a chaotic cloud of shards.

* * *

After an hour, I finally fix Keefe, and he finally rests, his eyes closed and still. I pull out my Imparter and call Mr. Forkle.

After only a second, which seems like an hour, he picks it up, his grumpy face looking at my own. "What's wrong, Sophie Foster?"

I don't speak, I just show him Rowan's face, which he had seen the day before.

"I came downstairs this morning to find his and Keefe's bodies on the floor. Keefe's mind was broken, but I fixed it." I show him Rowan's body.

"The boy looks younger, though, don't you agree?"

His face betrays nothing but cold calculation as he thinks for a moment. "This looks like it's going to be a problem. Initiate Phase 2."

* * *

Sarcasm watches Rowan as he tries to escape, as he meets an elf, as he falls and hurts himself. Rowan's avatar falls, his eyes glassy from a broken connection. He watches as the brown-eyed teenager finds them, does something to the ice-blue eyed boy, then calls one of the Outer Lost Collective.

He curses himself, wishing that he could save Rowan, not because that is one of his reasons for existing, but because Rowan is his light and his joy, the focus of all of his emotional output and the reason for all of his inner turmoil.

He loves him as a friend, not as a lover or brother, just as a friend. But sometimes a friend's love burns deeper than that of any lovers' passion, longer than that of a brother. He could feel the stab in his shoulder, beckoning him to sleep, but Sarcasm refuses, wanting to watch over Rowan for one last time before the end of the old life.

But what will happen when Rowan discovers the Dryadic folk, and who he is? Will he shun all of his protectors, if so, what would be left? The protectors have become something more, something that depends on Rowan and Rowan on it, a symbiotic relationship.

He rushes Rowan and embraces him, hoping that he feels this small gesture even in his sleep. The pain only deepens, forcing Ironia to take in a deep breath as his vision grows blurred, an earthquake alerting the rest of the mind to Rowan's danger as the Fire's Bane grows closer.

A star-dusted tear splatters on Rowan's band shirt, then another, until Ironia finally breaks down and cries, cradling his friend's limp body as he laments the boy's inevitable fate. " _I swear upon my life and my care for you that I will save you; I will stop at nothing, NOTHING, to help you through this madness and get you through alive and safe,"_ he whispers to the child, tears leaving white trails on his cheeks.

 _"Keeper of the Sun, Phoenix of the Night, Project Flaredon, these are all names forced upon you, but I see you as the Morning Dove that brings light to the world where there is none. I see you as the boy I grew up with, the boy who talks to me, the bright spot in this dark place. Secrets and lies, little Dove, are hidden everywhere. Finding them can bring you joy, but they can also bring you sorrow. Be careful, Rowan, and I will see you again. I love you, and I will keep you safe."_

Ironia's eyes blur with tears, then they go white, and he collapses, Rowan's body beside his as his own fades until it is transparent. Then it vanishes, leaving platinum spots where his tears had landed and dried.

When Sarcasm will come back, no-one knows, but one of those promises will never be fulfilled.

* * *

808

* * *

 **SO, WHO WERE THOSE PEOPLE, WHAT DO THEY PLAN TO DO WITH ROWAN, AND WHAT IS HE? DOES SARCASM KEEP HIS PROMISE? WILL ANYONE READ AND REVIEW THE CHAPTERS I POSTED? FIND OUT…LATER IN THE STORY! BYE NOW.**

Okay…I am not sure if no-one's enjoying this, is skimming it or something. But I'll ignore that and, first of all, recognize Cressida123 as my top reviewer for Rowan Dryadalem. In fact, your reviews are WAY more detailed than any on any of my other stories, which is both awesome, sad, hilarious and…wait, what was I saying? You rock! Also…Sophie is a bit of a jerk. *avoids deadly sharp knives* But I still find the concept interesting. School sucks, but at least I can hang out with my friends. I hope you find a way to enjoy the beauties of dreamland more often, it is a wonderful place to visit.

Anyway, my favorite book is Ender's Game, but Keeper of the Lost Cities is a very close second. *I watch the security monitors with disinterest as a hoard of KOTLC fans storm through the tiny upstairs hallway looking for blood*

Dex is the best character in KOTLC, for not only is he cute, but he is intelligent, honest, compassionate, loyal and is cool.

*Watches part of the hoard head back home because they like Dex as well.*

*Smirks as part of the mob tries to fit in the bathroom*

*Suddenly cracks up*

"I really was tempted to have Rowan complain about what I've been doing with his life, but I decided to make him oblivious for the time being."

*Rowan pokes his head through the door and sees the monitors*

"I was trying to do homework, but I heard noises upstairs. It's not them again, is it? Also, who are you talking to, and what about? I heard my name."

*Me suddenly putting down and darting in front of the device*

"No peeking, Lego Boy!" (looks like no matter how old he gets he still loves those Legos and the power they give him {figuratively})

*Sees his hand immediately dart behind his back*

"Seriously?! I thought I told you to build somewhere else, I'm trying to work. I don't want to get my room messy again."

*Rowan looks down with disappointment*

*I break down, feeling guilty at my retort*

"Okay, what do you want to play?"

*He perks up*

"What about Legora?"

"Sure"

*We run off to his room to play with Legos, the device shut off for the time being*


End file.
